


Sweet Failure

by readysetstarker



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Peter and Tony Can't Bake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22623832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readysetstarker/pseuds/readysetstarker
Summary: Peter had the perfect plan. [...] Peter thought it was foolproof. It was sound, had achievable goals. There were no foreseeable complications in it. Even if Ned had laughed at him and included an extra step: “Do literally none of that.”
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 177





	Sweet Failure

**Author's Note:**

> i love baking fics tbh. this is the second of them i've ever done, and i LOVE it when i get to write my faves being disasters in the kitchen. much love to my team of artists who were so patient with me this past month. <3<3
> 
> hate is going to be stuck in the oven to burn, so why bother sending it? let's be a little more productive and put effort into things we love, everyone. <3
> 
> the art at the end was a collaboration of three fantastic artists: dryce did the sketch for the artwork, peachybabypie cleaned up and did the line art, and lighinz did such a fantastic job with the colors! i'm beyond honored to have gotten to work with these three.

Peter had the perfect plan.

**_Step 1: Find out Mr. Stark’s favorite type of cookie._ **

Wait, did Mr. Stark even like cookies?

**~~_Step 1: Find out Mr. Stark’s favorite type of cookie._ ~~ _  
__Step 1: Find out if Mr. Stark even_ _likes_ _cookies._ **

**_Step 2: Find out Mr. Stark’s favorite type of cookie._ **

_**Step 3: Find a recipe. A GOOD recipe.** _(Cutting corners wasn’t allowed. May always said that handmade gifts meant more to people than bought ones, and Peter knew that fact more than anyone.)

**_Step 4: Make the cookies._ **

The other Avengers barely used the kitchen on the recreational floor of the Tower. Steve and Sam used it the most, and even then they would just drink tea together in the late hours of the morning, when sleep evaded them or nightmares made sleeping worse than staying awake. Bucky joined them, sometimes, though he would mostly just stand with his arm around Sam’s shoulders.

Maybe Natasha used it, too. He found her cleaning dirty dishes in the sink by hand every once in a while.

They wouldn’t be a nuisance, but Sam would definitely ask questions. Peter supposed he could make a few extras to bribe him into keeping his mouth shut. The last thing he needed was someone running to Tony and ruining the surprise. (Or to make fun of his idea. Peter was already on the verge of trashing everything and locking himself in his room, saving himself the embarrassment of potential rejection.)

**_Step 5: Let them cool, make some icing, decorate._ **

Friday had been more than helpful in supplying the fact that Tony’s favorite color was red. Not that Peter had suspected it to be anything else, but just having that confirmed for him took a weight off his shoulders. May had a half-full bottle of red food coloring in her kitchen cabinet. He could save some money and use that instead of buying a whole new bottle.

**_Step 6: Nut up._ ** He was still working on this one.

**_Step 7: Present the cookies to Mr. Stark and tell him how you feel._ **

May had always told him that the best way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. Peter could agree; he had fallen just a little in love that one night that Clint had cooked dinner, at the insistence that he was getting sick from the massive amounts of take out they had ordered and eaten the days before. His mouth flooded just thinking about the taste of Clint’s lasagna. 

If his cookie plan failed, that was always a good backup.

**_Step 8: If we get this far, Mr. Stark confesses his feelings as well and I kiss him and we start a relationship that satisfies us both and makes us both happy_.**

Peter thought it was foolproof. It was sound, had achievable goals. There were no foreseeable complications in it. Even if Ned had laughed at him and included an extra step: “Do literally none of that.”

Sometimes, he wished Ned was a little more encouraging. Sometimes, he wished he had listened to his best friend when he advised Peter against something.

It was a little difficult to lie to Tony when the man walked into the kitchen smelling of two-day-old cologne and metal, silver-streaked hair just on that sexy side of messy, and wiping black, cruddy oil from his fingers, and he stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Peter just as much a mess. Only instead of oil, Peter was covered in flour and egg white residue.

Peter couldn’t explain away the torn bag of all-purpose flour, the gritty dough he was still mixing in a large red bowl, and the smell of pure sugar permeating the room. The pink and white apron, tied around his waist with a sloppy red bow, probably didn’t help, either.

Tony’s head cocked to the side, his infamous smirk already spreading across his face, and he went back to work scrubbing the oil from between his fingernails and cuticles.

“Well,” he started. Those brown eyes that had Peter frozen to his spot were now on the rag in Tony’s hands. The strip of blue working over his dirty fingers had seen better days. “Whatcha got there, Pete?”

“Uh,” Peter’s mind so helpfully supplied him. Tony’s response was to look back up to him, brow pulling tight to give him a bemused smile. Peter closed his mouth, swallowed, tried again. “I’m baking.”

“I can see that.” Tony slowly nodded. He approached the kitchen like a lion would approach a lamed antelope. His eyes left Peter, seemingly ignoring him, to take in the disaster area that was previously his kitchen. “Any particular reason you wanted to cover my kitchen in flour? And eggs. Did you just slam an egg onto my counter, Pete?”

_Accidentally crushed it in my hand and dropped the yolk_ , Peter thought. He shrugged instead.

“I’m baking cookies for someone,” he answered. He hoped he sounded nonchalant enough when he turned back to the bowl in his hands and continued to stir the dough. 

“Lucky someone.” Tony met Peter’s eye when the younger man turned towards him. 

“Sure, I guess. I’m not that proficient at baking.”

Tony chuckled. “Why bother baking them yourself, then? There are plenty of places to get sweets around New York if you want to impress someone. Hell, I’d even cover the cost, as long as it’s not a romantic venture.”

Peter tried not to blanch. Tony getting involved was the last thing he needed.

“No!” Peter wanted to flinch at how quickly he yelled. Tony even seemed put off, brows raising up into his hairline. Peter hurriedly stirred at the thickening dough in his bowl and tried to find his place in the recipe. “I mean, no thank you. I want to do this myself. Homemade gifts are better than bought ones, at least to me.”

Tony’s answer was a simple hum, and Peter kept his eyes down to the counter as he dumped the mixed dough onto the counter and began looking for flour and a rolling pin. 

In the silence that followed, Peter listened and hoped for retreating footsteps. He hadn’t thought to make room in his plan for the miniscule chance that Tony would have stumbled upon him. He hadn’t thought that maybe Tony would bring himself up into the communal kitchen for whatever reason. 

His worst fears seemed to come to life: instead of leaving and returning to his workshop, Tony stepped forward and tossed his oily rag across the room until it landed unceremoniously by the leg of a chair. Peter’s stomach dropped even more when he heard the water run in the sink and turned to find Tony rubbing gray suds across the skin of his hands.

His mouth worked faster than his brain: “What are you doing?”

“Washing my hands, unless you _want_ your cookies to taste like the inside of a car engine,” Tony teased. He washed the lather from his hands and added a second coating. “You’re right about the homemade gifts thing, and I want to help you. Maybe keep me away from the oven, though, or your cookies will turn into charcoal.”

Peter’s tongue stuck to his mouth in a similar fashion to how his dough seemed to be sticking to the pin.

“Th-Tha-That’s not necessary, Mr. Stark,” he started, trying his best to keep the dough in one piece. “Really, I don’t want to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Pete.” Tony dried his freshly cleaned hands off on a hand towel hanging from the oven and beamed. “So, what else does your recipe call for, besides actually baking the damn things? I can help you out with that, instead.”

Peter pretended to be reading the recipe, his mind focused instead on how to get rid of Tony. This was not part of his plan. At all. This could ruin it, if Peter accidentally let slip his true intentions. It would be so much easier if he could also get the damn dough to stop _sticking_.

“Um, maybe the icing?” he said. He really wanted to send Tony away, but the hopeful look on Tony’s face was enough to make him change his mind. Tony’s desire to help, his want to ease any and all of Peter’s burdens, was one of the reasons he loved him so much. 

“Icing? I think I can do that. Any specific colors?”

“Just white, red, and pink. Food dye should be in that plastic bag,” Peter instructed. He pointed the bag out for Tony. “Friday, can you help Mr. Stark with mixing the colors while I finish this up?”

“I’ve got him,” Friday answered. Her voice helped soothe the panic in the back of Peter’s mind. “The oven’s preheated and ready for whenever you need it. I already have a timer prepped, as well.”

“Ah, Fri, what would we do without you?” Tony’s voice was that perfect blend of sarcastic and genuine. Peter wished he wasn’t in such a panicked state that he could enjoy hearing him speak with his AI. 

He focused on getting his uncooperative dough to work with him, instead. The pan had been sprayed down with something non-stick to help take the cookies off when they were done, and the silence was interspersed with Tony’s witty one-liners and instructions from Friday on how to properly make pink and red icing without the colors looking too similar. Peter found he could almost get used to this; he even entertained a short fantasy in his head, of him and Tony dancing around each other in the kitchen to make dinner together.

Tony would still burn whatever he touched. They’d order Chinese instead.

It was Tony’s voice that took him out of his fantasy, trying his best to rub the sugary grit from his fingers when Tony made a noise and looked to find the older man staring at the pan while stirring a rather watery mixture of white and red. It hadn’t turned pink just yet.

“You’re making your cookies spell out ‘love’?” he asked. Peter was convinced that he was making up the pout in Tony’s frown. “Hold on, I said I wasn’t going to help if it was romantic.”

“Oh, right. Um, they’re — These aren’t technically going to be from me!” Peter nearly bit his cheek. Tony’s brows pulled tight again, and his eyes narrowed when they met Peter’s. 

“Then why are you making them?”

_Shit_. 

“Um. Sam asked me to.” 

Peter mentally kicked himself. Tony’s eyes only seemed to narrow even more, his stirring coming to a halt. “Sam. Sam _Wilson_ asked you to make cookies for him?”

“Not exactly?” Peter’s voice wavered. He cursed. “I mean, everyone knows he has a thing for Bucky. It’s not subtle. And I know for a _fact_ that Bucky feels the same way.”

“So Sam, what, said he wanted to bake cookies to confess his undying love for our resident loner?” Tony asked.

“No, b-but he asked me for help,” Peter said. His smile felt forced, even to him. “I, I don’t know, I thought this would be cute? It’d give them something to laugh over later, anyway.”

Tony stared at him for just a moment too long, before he turned back to his thin frosting and continued stirring. Peter busied himself with shaping the _O_ of his letters into a heart. Was it lopsided? It looked even to him, but a quip from Friday made him second guess his perspective. Maybe the left hump _was_ a little bigger than the right one.

Peter didn’t let it worry him too much. He pushed the pan into the oven and adjusted the top branch of the _E_ before the pan became too hot. Friday confirmed that the timer was set and counting down when he shut the door. Peter’s fingers stuck together from the sugar remaining on his skin, and Tony was working on a rather lumpy-looking bowl of red frosting when he passed by.

“Your icings don’t look very... consistent,” he offered while running warm water over his hands. Tony scoffed.

“I’m offended that you don’t see the clear improvements I’ve made to your recipe,” Tony announced while struggling to push the rubber spatula through what Peter could only describe as a pile of ruddy sand. “These confession cookies will be _innovative_.”

_But not as pleasant a surprise_ , Peter thought sadly as he began putting the dirty dishes into the sink. Even when the cookies were finished, what was he going to do with them? Tony would know what they looked like, the message behind them. 

He could always turn the tables on Tony, surprise the man with the fact that he had assisted in his own love confession.

Peter busied himself with scrubbing at hardened streaks of dough lining the inside of the mixing bowl he had been cradling in his arms when Tony had first found him. He was already making his game plan for tackling all the loose flour on the counter (and floor) when Tony made a noise of frustration and set his chunky icing onto the counter a little too forcefully. A few pieces broke off the edge of the bowl and landed on the granite top.

“Friday, I’m fighting a losing battle with this, and I’m admitting defeat.” Tony’s admission was forced through grit teeth, and Peter fought his laughter while Tony ordered for Friday to bring up the icing recipe again. He failed at smothering his amused smile, but Tony was far too focused on his catastrophe to notice.

Peter was too busy scratching at a stubborn bit of chocolate to hear the continuation of their conversation. He was already scrubbing the rolling pin and rubbing the remains off of his fingers when he heard Tony click his tongue. The sound was echoed by an idle tapping of a nail against the counter.

He turned, fully prepared to tease and rib Tony about being unable to mix milk and powdered sugar. _It’s the easiest part of the recipe, Mr. Stark,_ was already rolling off his tongue.

His words were cut short before they were said, his stomach dropping at the sight of Tony scrolling through the recipe’s instructions and reading the footnotes Peter had left off to the side. Tony’s lips wrapped around each word, eyes scanning them, reading them silently to himself. 

Shit, _shit_.

“Um, Mr. Stark—”

“I thought you said these cookies were for Sam?” Tony asked. His arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes slid over to Peter. 

Peter was sure his face and neck were burning red. He never had a decent enough poker face.

“They are! I just, uh…” His mind raced. He was losing control, caught up in a lie that, even he had to admit, wasn’t too convincing in the first place. 

Tony didn’t give him a chance to catch himself. “If these cookies are meant to confess to Bucky, then do you want to explain why my name happens to be written all over this recipe?” He nodded his head towards the hologram lingering above the kitchen counter.

_Yes, I would_ love _to explain_ , Peter thought to himself. He really would, but nothing came to mind fast enough. Neither Bucky nor Sam needed the comment about Tony’s favorite color, or how he would want the treats presented to him.

“These aren’t meant for Bucky, are they?” Tony asked. His tone indicated that he already knew the answer; he wanted to hear the truth from Peter himself. 

Peter saw no point in lying.

“No.”

Silence fell between them again, and Peter was sure Tony would drop everything and leave him there, maybe embarrassed or disgusted by Peter’s attempt. The man who taught him everything, gave him everything, wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye anymore. That’s not even taking into account whether the others would find out.

Natasha was far too intuitive for her own good.

And then came the sigh. Peter tensed. He could take it. Make it through the embarrassing rejection. Get it over with.

“Thank god,” Tony said, and every gear in Peter’s brain ground to a halt. He stared down at his feet, Tony’s words still processing. He was still working on them when he glanced up to find Tony running his fingers through his hair. Peter wanted to warn him about the colored sugar now streaked into his silver, but Tony’s eyes drifting up to his halted every word.

“Pete,” Tony started, and Peter tried a little too hard not to focus on the red beginning to show on Tony’s cheeks. That was a sight he never thought he’d see. “God, sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Just… I’m not the sharing type, Pete.”

“You’re… what,” Peter said. He was still making it past Tony’s initial reaction of _Thank god_.

Tony smirked at him, a little quirk of the corner of his mouth. His own blush didn’t seem to slow him down, and if Peter wasn’t struggling to make his brain work, he would have absolutely brought it up. Tony stood tall, shoulders back, hand already outstretched to brush his fingertips along the curve of Peter’s jaw. Peter’s breath caught at the gentle touch of Tony’s thumb across his cheek.

Their foreheads pressed together, lips just inches from each other. Peter wanted to move forward. He wanted to initiate. He wanted to slot their lips together and let Tony’s tongue slip between his own. _I’m not the sharing type_ , Tony had said, and Peter wanted to taste those words for himself.

“Boss,” Friday said, just as Peter felt Tony’s lips press against the corner of his mouth, “I don’t mean to alarm you and Mr. Parker, but it seems the temperature of the oven wasn’t quite right. The cookies inside are burning.”

“Shit!” 

Peter nearly head butted Tony in his efforts to rush past him and get to the oven. Sour black smoke wafted into the open air of the kitchen. Tony had to remind him to use oven mitts to pull the pan out (“I know you have super-healing, Pete, but super-healing will not prevent you from _feeling_ the third-degree burns!”), and Peter’s heart sank when the smoke cleared enough for him to see the full extent of the damage:

The cookies had kept their shape for the most part, but there was still some spread and thinning out near the edges of them. The heart had somehow turned out more misshapen than when it went in. It looked less like a heart and more like a very crispy lump of charcoal. Peter’s eyes stung from the smoke billowing in his face, and that’s absolutely what he told himself when his vision grew a little blurry.

An arm slung itself around his shoulders. Peter purposely avoided looking Tony in the eye.

“Oh, that’s unsalvageable. I thought we were making cookies, not, uh, brownies,” he teased, giving Peter’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. Peter took a deep breath. He nearly choked on the smell of scorched sugar and blinked back his tears.

“We were,” he admitted with a small waver to his voice.

Tony kissed Peter’s temple, a hand coming up to ruffle his hair. Peter didn’t spare a moment to think about the possibility that he had frosting in his hair now.

“C’mon, Pete, don’t worry yourself over it. We can always make more, yeah?” Tony kissed his cheek the second time. The scruff of his goatee scratched at Peter’s skin. “How about we try this recipe again? Friday can babysit us, and I don’t have to help you make another man’s cookies.”

Peter chewed on the inside of his cheek, heart fluttering in his chest as Tony asked Friday to walk them through making a new batch of dough. Peter set the burnt batch onto the stovetop and removed the oven mitts. A glance over his shoulder showed Tony watching him with a small smile, although his eyes lingered a little too low to be completely innocent.

Peter sniffed and the last of his tears seemed to disappear.

“Fine, but maybe let me make the dough again. I don’t know what you did to that icing, but I think it’s moving by itself.”


End file.
